


A Disturbance in the Tavern

by cathelms



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3136844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathelms/pseuds/cathelms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A King Arthur drabble that I wrote many years back. Arthur must contain Lancelot...again. Not beta'd, so all mistakes are my own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Disturbance in the Tavern

Many candle marks had come and gone since the Commander had begun reading through the latest dispatches and then turned his attention to supply logs and requisitions that had been processed in his absence. Thus it was late when the urgent and insistent knock came at Arthur’s door. He tiredly rubbed a hand over his stubbled face and gave entry to whomever it was that had interrupted his work.

The ground was hard as iron; frozen in the harsh wintry weather that gripped the lands of Britain this time of year. Snow crunched oddly beneath Arthur’s hobnailed boots as he crossed the courtyard towards the small makeshift tavern near the kitchens. Raised voices could be heard on the winds long before Arthur reached the threshold.

“What is this?” Arthur spoke evenly upon entry to the relatively small building. The Commander had no need of raising his voice as his tone alone demanded the attention of all the occupants within the place. Every man seemingly froze and turned to gape at their Commander….save one.

“Lancelot,” Arthur’s rich baritone dipped an octave lower (if that were even possible) at speaking his lieutenant’s name. The Sarmatian had another man pinned against the back wall of the tavern; one hand at his adversary’s throat while the other clenched at the man’s jerkin.

It had taken Arthur’s hand on Lancelot’s shoulder and a quiet murmur into the Sarmatian’s ear before the enraged knight at last released his hold on his captive. The Commander gave a solemn apology to the shaken soldier with a promise to personally ‘take care of the matter’. He then ordered Lancelot outside in a voice that brooked no argument.

Lancelot went as commanded….but not without meeting Arthur’s green eyes with a piercing stare of resentment at the other man’s intrusion. How dare the Roman interfere with Lancelot’s private affairs??

Arthur briefly thanked Jols for summoning him and left his squire to see to it that order was restored in the tavern. And then he stepped out into the cold once again and followed the foot prints left in the snow from Lancelot’s boots. Their trail led round to the side of the building and well out of sight from those exiting the tavern to go to their beds. Arthur deeply exhaled, his hot breath steamed in the frosty night air, as he approached his lieutenant. He slightly shivered as he’d not thought to pull on a coat.

“Had you not enough today?” Arthur said dryly; he referred to the bloody Woad skirmish they had returned from earlier as twilight faded over the walls of the fortress. They had been fortunate today; no lives had been lost. But they had killed many of the blue painted people and returned bloody and worn from battle. The Commander never questioned the need of his men for drink and distraction after such missions…however, when it got out of hand….

Lancelot snorted in response from where he stood in the shadows with his back pressed against the wall of the building. His hands were balled into tight fists at his hips; anger still permeated from every pore. And for what?

Arthur came to stand directly in front of his friend and reached over to lightly finger at the torn tunic Lancelot wore. “Was it worth it?” Arthur added with a small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck you, Arthur,” Lancelot bit off; anger beginning to melt away at Arthur’s nearness. He brushed the other man’s thick fingers from his torn clothing and sighed a small chuckle. It had been ridiculous really – Arthur _(fuckinghell)_ was right of course. The brainless man Lancelot had nearly killed in the tavern was only guilty of being drunk and clumsy. He had the misfortune of stumbling beside Lancelot’s table and in his attempt to keep from crashing to the ground, had grabbed onto the nearest thing…Lancelot’s tunic. And the material had paid the price by ripping. Lancelot owned precious little clothing and with battle lust still quite fresh in his mind, he’d reacted violently.

“Would you rather hang for assaulting a Roman soldier?” Arthur countered with brows drawn together; his own irk now on the rise. Lancelot had behaved foolishly and he had, God help him, come to spare the other man serious punishment for it. The Roman army had little tolerance for violence among their troops…none for the conscripts. Lancelot knew this! Had it been any other officer to break up the skirmish – Lancelot would….Arthur cared not to think about that.

“That whoreson is lucky I didn’t slit his damn throat!” Lancelot bit back at Arthur, pushed off from the wall and brushed past his Commander to get a few paces away…before an iron grip had him at the ball of his shoulder. Lancelot bared his teeth as he was forced around to face Arthur again.

“Over a torn tunic? Lancelot, enough,” Arthur’s green eyes flashed a warning in the dark. And he should have seen it coming.

“Enough?!” Lancelot shouted back at Arthur after he’d hit the other man square on the jaw. His hand instantly hurt – Arthur was obviously made of metal or some other very hard substance. Lancelot had just struck his commanding officer, his friend and the only Roman that he had ever trusted….and over what? A torn tunic. In a tavern brawl. Death should have come from a blade on a battlefield.

The moon was obscured by the heavy snow clouds overhead. A dog howled ominously in the night from somewhere far off. Snow began to fall again and another strong shiver took Arthur’s spine.

Arthur’s hand went to his jaw in the aftermath of the sudden contact from Lancelot’s fist. Why did the Sarmatian always have to fight? What drove him to rebel against everyone and everything in this life? He rubbed at the offended flesh of his jaw with two fingers and sighed down at the frozen ground. He did not follow as the other man stomped off into the night. At least Arthur had spared Lancelot execution by interrupting the disturbance in the tavern. He would make excuses to his superiors should the offended party – that being the Roman soldier that Lancelot had assaulted over an accidentally torn tunic – report it. On his way back to his private chambers, Arthur paid a small visit to the chapel and softly spoke a prayer for Lancelot’s safe-keeping.


End file.
